Jazz Baby
by stagemystic
Summary: Bart's snagged himself a night on the town and, thanks to the dame with the big green eyes, it may just be a night he never forgets... that is, if he lives that long.
1. Prologue: A Night to Remember Uhh Maybe

**Disclaimer: **Days of our Lives belongs to NBC and Corday, I 'm just playing there for a while. I promise to put everything back and lock up when I 'm done.

**A/N:** I like Bart and I figured the mook should have his own adventure. As to the style, this _is _Bart... how could I not write this as a first person, 40's, pulp detective story?

**Jazz Baby**

I came to, head poundin' like the first anvil in a concert of the Anvil Chorus performin' for the deaf. I shook my head a little to maybe calm down the ringin' a bit.

Bad move.

As the anvils boomed out an enthusiastic, double loud encore, a wave of dizziness hit me upside the head and my stomach gave serious consideration to starting eviction procedures against last night's Chinese take-out.

Geez Lou - _eeze_, no _fair_ havin' a morning after without the benefit of rememberin' the night before…

As I clamped my mouth tight, I tried to grab my head to stop the room from spinning. Or, at least, that was the idea. My arms, however, decided to stay locked behind me, wrapped around the back of the chair I only just realized I was sitting on. After about a minute it made it's way through my splitting skull that the reason for that was that they had been tied there.

Uh oh.

_Bartholemew James Biederbicke this is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into. _The voice that echoed in my head was like a weird combination of Ollie Hardy and Gramma Biederbicke and I in no way want to know what Doc Marlena would make of _that. _My own voice was more to the point; _Bart, what the holy heck have you done now?!_

One thing I knew for sure (being a long-term employee of the Dimera organization gives a guy a kinda inside scoop on these things) I was in trouble. Big trouble. The kinda trouble that gets a guy fitted for a nice pair of cement overshoes and an all expenses paid tour of the Salem harbour. The pain had dulled down enough that I could rattle around in my memory a bit an' maybe figure out what had gotten me from point A ( the Blue Note popped into my head… good start ) to point B ( dark, dusty, lotsa wood beams, abandoned warehouse probably, seen enough in my day… not good at all ). I admit, the kinda brain work ain't really my bag, ( as Count D likes to say, "I'm not paying you to think." ) but it looked like my only way out.

Like I said. Big trouble.

While I was tryin' to exercise the old brain cells I got distracted by somethin' warm n' trickly slipping down the side of my face. Blood. Oh swell. At least I couldn't see it. I don't do well with blood _at all_. Especially my own. A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Right! I'd got cracked! Heard somethin' an' was turning around and… well… things kinda went dark after that. But what was I up to? Somethin' caught my attention. I figure a healthy interest in the world around him can keep a fella a couple of steps ahead of whatever's comin'. Gramma used to just call it nosey. _Don't forget_, she'd say, _curiosity killed the… _Uhh… I decided not to finish that thought…

A pair of pretty green eyes flashed across my mind. That dame! The whole sorry night dropped into my head like a sack of lead balloons. Of course, it's always a dame. I woulda kicked myself if my legs hadn't been tied to the chair ( second discovery, after the arms ). If I hadn't followed that girl… or talked to her… or maybe it was the whole Eddie thing. Hell, I shoulda kept outa the Blue Note completely, stayed home, watched a Cagney flick… 'cept, well, I can't as say I had much choice on that one…


	2. On The Town

A/N: Sorry this update took so long, real life can be sooooooo intrusive...

On a more serious note there were rumours in Soap Opera Weekly that Bart may be written out of Days... permanently:( This has not been confirmed by either Steve Blackwood or NBC so I'm hoping it's not true but, just in case, I want all the other Bart fans to write Corday and Hogan and let them know it just won't be Days without our favorite DiMera henchman! (SOB - Save Our Bart!)

If the worst comes to pass I promise to write a fic immediately and give Bart the happy ending he deserves. What else is fanfiction but a way for the fans to fix the story after the writers screw it up?

Anywho... Here's the next chappie. Reviews are, as always, welcome! Enjoy!

**Jazz Baby**

Chapter 1 - On The Town

"Bart... Get out… NOW!"

Okay, so I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer (Rolfie mutters regular about 'arrested development' whatever that means) but I could tell the Count was pissed. It might have had somethin' to do with trackin' mud all over his new antique Persian rug, or maybe it was that disc I was supposed to swipe almost landin' in the hands of Mister John 'that's a fact' Black (landed in the river instead, swimmin' with the fishes, ha… umm… not thinkin' about it… ).

Well, whatever it was I wasn't gonna ask him about it in case I mentioned somethin' he hadn't thought about yet. Let sleepin' dogs lie my buddy Fingers used to say, an' he should know, lost a couple of digits to a rottweiler he tripped over breakin' into… never mind. Anyways, the Boss was kinda pinchin' the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, sighin' even (funny but he never does that unless he's talkin' to me direct like, go figure) then he asked me to leave again, real quiet this time.

Now that scared me.

Y' see I'm used to yellin'. The Stefmiester gave his vocal cords regular exercise at my expense and the Count ain't much different. Yellin' I can handle. When I'm getting my butt kicked, DiMera style, it usually means 'next time, don't screw up'. The operative word… uhh… words… are _next time. _But when a DiMera goes quiet? Trouble folks with a capital T, cause that means they're thinkin', an' what they're usually thinkin' is how much easier things would be without the screw ups. Then they start thinkin' about who screwed up in the first place an' then it's all downhill from there. So when I got the out I was gone faster than a hundred dollar bet on a pair of loaded dice.

I made a quick detour to my room for some extra cash and a change of clothes. By the time I was smoothin' over the lapels of my favorite smoke grey 'Sinatra woulda been proud' suit, I'd already put the close call behind me. From where I stood, I'd managed to slip the noose and had a night off to boot. Not bad, not bad at all. Fifteen minutes after I'd stood shakin' in my wingtips on a muddy antique rug I was leavin' the DiMansion with a spring in my step an' a whistle on my lips. (By the back door, of course. I wasn't about to push my luck _too_ far.)

Now a night out is a special occasion in the Bartster's books. Sure I get plenty of time to myself, but being on 24/7 call usually keeps me close to home. Most nights I'm kicking back in my digs watchin' old movies, readin' comics or croonin' along with my Rat Pack albums. Sinatra, Dino, hell now _that_ was music! Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong time but, hey, ya gotta play the cards you're dealt, right? Don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a complete loner. There's the occasional poker night with the other 'henchmen' in town but things can get a little tense if a couple of bosses are on the outs. Sometimes a fella won't show at all. Usually that means one of the Brady boys managed to figure two an' two is four and the poor sucker picked up an extended pass to the big house. Other times though, well, lets just say things are a little more permanent. Come to think of it, poker night ain't too fun.

There's not much company at the mansion either. The DiMeras ain't known for hanging out with the hired help, the maids are beautiful but you make an innocent suggestion (Okay, maybe not so innocent, but you can't blame a guy for tryin') and the next thing you know… brrrr… frostbite. And Rolfie? Well he'd rather play Frankenstein in the basement.

To be honest things are pretty lonely for a guy like me so, to get a night on the town? Royal flush.

I decided to take myself out to the Blue Note. I'd heard the Count mentionin' it on the phone when I dragged my muddy self into the mansion. Probably some kinda takeover bid, who knows, but it gave me a pretty good idea what to do with my evening. Some jazz, some martinis, who could ask for anything more? Okay, a doll to share it with but a fella takes what he can get. Hell, play the hand right and maybe it's not such a lonely night after all.

Sittin' at the Blue Note bar about an hour and three martinis later I was comin' to the conclusion that I'd been a shade optimistic. True, there was not a Brady or a Black to be seen, a bonus when all they ever do is get in a guy's face all self righteous like, saying they know your boss is up to something' and what the hell is it. Like I'm a stoolie or somethin'. Nah, the place was Keystone Cop free but it was full of spoiled rich kids. Boys in suits they weren't old enough to fill out yet and girls in too tight outfits filled out just a little too well. Not that I was complainin' but when you figure the age of most of those dolls, well, lets just say the safest place for the eyes of a guy on the wrong side of forty is on the drink in front of him. The few people my age were scattered around in tight little groups and, as none of them were lookin' to roll out the welcome mat, I kept myself to myself.

For a while there was a statuesque blonde to my left. I'd finally drummed (okay drank) up some courage an' was opening up my mouth to maybe lay on the charm when she turned and pinned me with her baby blues. I froze, mouth open, as she looked me up an' down. Then, cold as ice, "No." Swear to God there was icicles hangin' off of it! Geez - Lou-_eeze_! Shut down before I said a word! I could feel the red creepin' up the sides of my face and I started staring at my drink, tryin' real hard to just sink into the floor. After a couple of minutes she walked away and I didn't feel much inclined to watch her go. Fine, so the company wasn't up to scratch. I could put up with that for a night of good jazz. I winced as the kid on the mike started strangling 'I Won't Dance." Man, he shouldn't sing either.

Yep, the whole lousy night was a bust. I was about ready to cut my losses and head out. I figured I just had time to catch the late show when a sweet voice in my ear froze me to the spot. " Is this seat taken?"

I turned and I was suddenly lookin' into the biggest, prettiest pair of green eyes I'd ever seen. It took me a moment to pull myself outa them and get a gander at the rest of her.. Oh _gosh_! The eyes were sittin' in beautiful face scattered with light freckles and a full mouth, luscious lips curved in a soft smile. It was framed with a black, Uma, Pulp Fiction hair style that didn't really suit but who am I to complain? I was tryin' hard not to stare but I couldn't help my gaze wandering down that satiny brown dress that showed off her curves. Hallelujah! Real curves!Now I've seen a lot of beautiful women in my time. The Club Echelon girls were all knock outs (bad for business if they weren't, if you know what I mean) and even the regular Salem ladies are mostly lookers, but none of them ever smiled at me like that! Not just with that kissable mouth but way up in her eyes too. When Sinatra sang about 'Nancy with the Laughing Face', this had to be the face he was thinkin' about… man, oh man, was I a goner…

Eventually it made it's way through my daze that the gorgeous smile had started to fade a bit, an' I realized I'd been staring while she was waiting. I swallowed a couple of times over the lump in my throat and felt the red climbin' my mug again. Since I figured my voice wasn't comin' unless I was lookin' to channel Mickey Mouse, I just shook my head. She laughed and it was music to my ears. I _know _I heard bells! Wowie! Angels getting their wings all _over_ the place! She slid onto the stool next to me nice an' slow an' I got a peek at the kinda legs that oughta have a smokey saxaphone following' them around, just on general principles. After she settled in she gave me an odd 'what am I going to do with you' look that just about had my heart beatin' outa my chest and leaned in close.

"I don't need a babysitter, you know."

Okay, not your usual opening line. I tossed my mind for an answer that wouldn't leave me with a drink in my face.

"I… uh… wouldn't think so." Great, now _that_ was smooth. She gave me a long look and I sent a quick prayer up to the Big Guy, _Oh please don't let me screw this up_.

She grinned. "Well, as long as we understand each other (Yes! An' that was a save folks!)… we _do_ understand each other…?" I gave her a quick nod. I had no idea what she was talkin' about but, with a dame, unless the question is 'Do I look fat/crazy/stupid' or any variations thereof, the answer, write this down fellas, is always 'yes'.

She seemed to relax an', in a Mae West kinda voice that had my shirt collar, an' other places, feelin' awfully tight, purred, "Well then, how about you buy me a drink and we can discuss this _understanding _thing a bit."

Feelin' about ten feet tall, I raised my hand to catch the attention of the barkeep. The night was lookin' up an' 'yes' had just become this henchman's favorite word.


End file.
